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body,
and slid a large crucifix between the waxen fingers. Now that rigor had worn
off, the face looked at peace, as if a terrible burden had been lifted from
him. Their plan had surely worked; here was proof of it.
        It
had been more than a week since Sir Gerard had fallen ill of a fever. For days
he had been racked with vomiting and the flux. He'd writhed in agony from the
violent pains in his gut and his belly was so distended that it seemed the skin
would burst open like rotten fruit if anyone so much as touched it. It was as
if a demon had crawled inside him and was tearing his entrails apart from
within.
        For
days Lady Anne had sat by his bedside, not daring to move, for the physician
had warned her that her son could be taken from her at any hour. The worst of
it was Gerard had known he was dying. Each time he was roused from his delirium
he had grasped his mother's arm, begging for them to bring a priest. 'I must
have . . . absolution ... I must. . . confess.'
        Raffe
had turned away, slamming his fist against the stone wall in frustration. How
far off was the nearest priest — four days, a week? Men had been sent in every
direction to find one. But the servants who returned all told the same story.
Church after church was boarded up and locked, the priests banished or fled
before they could be seized by the king's men.
        God's
teeth, why hadn't Gerard died on the battlefield along with the thousands of
others whose bones were even now bleaching under the burning desert sun?
Priests were not needed there. The Pope had sworn that anyone who died fighting
under the Holy Cross would die with all his sins absolved. Yet even so, every
man in that army had prayed each dawn that they would still be alive to see the
sunset over
        Acre,
and at every sunset they begged their God that they might live to see another
dawn. Be careful what you pray for, Gerard had once told him. It was a lesson
they both should have heeded.
        Gerard
had vomited, blood pouring from his mouth, the twisting muscles of his stomach
screaming in protest. He lay back on the bed, shivering and sweating with the
effort. 'There's ... no priest coming, is there?' he gasped, gritting his teeth
as the pain welled up again. 'Raffe . . . you can't let me die in my sin. We
swore to each other . . .'
        Anne
clasped her son's hand to her face, her tears wetting his skin. 'My son,
there's no man more honourable than you. No man who has ever made his mother
more proud of her son. You've lived a pure life, fought in the Holy Wars. Those
few venial sins you may have committed since must surely be outweighed by that.
I promise you that I will pray day and night for your soul, and when the
Interdict is lifted, which it must be soon, then we will have Masses said for
—'
        Gerard
seized her wrist. 'Prayers will not be enough . . . I have to confess ... we
did a terrible thing... Raffe knows ... I cannot die with it upon me. I shall
be carried straight to hell.' His eyes rolled back in his head as if he no
longer had control over any part of his body.
        Raffe
lumbered across to his friend's side. Clumsily he knelt beside him, seizing his
other hand.
        'Open
your eyes, man! You can't sleep yet.' He shook Gerard, trying to force him to
stay in this world, as you would pummel a drunk to keep him awake. Raffe wanted
to scream at him — If you die there will be only me to carry it. You can't
leave me alone with this. But although the words were written in his eyes,
he dared not utter them aloud.
        It
was like holding on to the hand of a man who was hanging over the side of a
cliff. Raffe could feel the life slipping away, as if the dangling man's
fingers were sliding inexorably out of his grasp. This was his dearest friend,
the man who had rescued him from the abject shame and misery of a mutilated life, the master who had raised him to companion and steward. They
had protected each other in battle